


It Would Be Easier

by byebye



Series: It Would Be Easier [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: POV Second Person, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 10:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6280351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byebye/pseuds/byebye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky’s experiences from Captain America: The First Avenger, though not all encompassing. Done through scenes that are not all canon (though many are), but still meant to occur during this time frame. Includes: His departure from New York. Zola’s laboratory. An exploration of his relationships with Peggy and Howard. His relationship with Steve. The train.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Would Be Easier

**Author's Note:**

> While ‘graphic’ may be a little overzealous of a term to use in regards to violence, there are quite a few depictions of blood and gore, in addition to minor violent scenes from the movie. I don’t imagine it’s worse than the movie itself, but there it is. There are a few instances of swearing, but they’re soldiers, so I find it’s quite expected. 
> 
> In terms of historical accuracy, I know little about military regulations of the time, and am operating on a small amount of research. Several sites indicated different numbers for the size of a regiment, and I'm pretty sure an NCO can't become a CO, but let's pretend anyways. 
> 
> Also, the relationships tagged are not really ever romantic. There is mention of emotional attachments, and discussions of said attachments, but nothing is ever physical as Steve is never involved in the discussions. 
> 
> Not beta’ed.

The first time you pull a trigger, they don’t give you any real bullets. It’s a blank, so if you can’t shoot worth a damn, you don’t end up hurting nobody. Course, it don’t tell any of them if you actually can shoot worth a damn. You aim for a target, but you can’t see if you hit anything. But they tell you that afterward -- making sure you don’t hurt nobody. But ain’t nobody dumb enough to walk past the training site, ‘specially for the newbies. 

You think it’s really to get you used to recoil. You gotta learn how is feels first, before you can really aim. But you’re one of the lucky ones -- leastwise that’s what they tell you. You’re a natural with the pistol; they’d like you to try the rifle. See if you can handle the kickback there. You’re one of the lucky ones -- leastwise that’s what they tell you. You get your own rifle, one of the best they have to offer. 

You don’t tell Steve when you get back. You tell him the same stories you heard from all the rest of the neighborhood who’ve come and gone. Basic was about learning how to follow orders. About learning how to shoot a gun. About how to work with your team in the most effective way. About testing your endurance. About making sure you were prepared for the war. 

You don’t tell him it wasn’t preparing anyone for the war. You don’t tell him that the equipment was no good. You don’t tell him that they weren’t training you to survive the war. You don’t tell him that they were training you up to kill Nazis before you died next to ‘em. You don’t tell him that every man in uniform is just another pawn to sacrifice.

The day you get your orders, you find him outside the theatre, getting himself beat to holy hell. Not that this surprises you. He’s always getting himself beat up. He doesn’t know how to get beat down. 

You wonder if the hurt in his voice when he notices your uniform is because you’re leaving him alone, or because you’re leaving him behind. You decide it doesn’t matter. This is probably the last time you’ll see him. It’s time you aren’t ready to give up because he’s upset. You pull him under your arm, dragging him to some date. You don’t remember the dames’ names when you greet them, but they supply them easy enough when you approach. You hear them giggle with each other, saying each other’s names just loud enough for you to catch when you wave. The blonde looks disappointed with Steve. You want to leave them both behind for that look. 

You go anyways because... Because. You go on. This is your last night with Stevie. You need to be doing something more than just sitting in the apartment, waiting for the morning. So the car goes up, falls down, and you turn to look at Steve, no longer feeling him next to you. He’s gone of course; you knew he would be. It is not difficult to think where he may be. You fight with him about trying to enlist. He should have never tried the first time; you know he won’t stop until he gets taken in or taken to prison. You leave him with a salute. You seem to be the only one who sees that he deserves one. You know for certain you do not. Stevie thinks you enlisted; you will never tell him they dragged you into this.

 

You don’t return to your apartment that night, your last night. You can’t. If you did, you know you would never be able to ship out tomorrow. You wonder, months later when you see Steve again, if he waited up all night to tell you about it. You wonder, months later when his voice echoes in your ears, if he would have told you anything that night. 

You spend the night with both the girls. They needed little convincing, as though this was where they wanted to end up all along. Gentle as you are with the brunette, you have never been more rough with anyone than that blonde. 

 

The 107th Infantry Regiment is full of boys younger than you, no more than 20 years old. They’re strong in muscles. You can see how weak they are in heart. You wonder how long they’ll last in the battlefields. They don’t seem to know they were trained to be slaughtered like cattle. You guess this means the burden is yours to bear alone. 

You don’t know how so many of them make it to Azzano. You shipped out with nearly fifteen hundred men in the 107th. They spilt you in half little more than a month after you arrived. Two hundred of you made it to the battle in Azzano less than a year later. You don’t know how many made it back to camp, or how many are dead. You count nearly 30 of your comrades in the cells with you. Silent, you wonder where the rest are. You say little to the men in your cage. You have long since lost your voice in this war. You wonder when it first started to disappear from you, and flashes of blood and bone and vomit and you forget the question you started to ask yourself.

One night you pull out a worn sketch from your pocket. They did not let you keep your pack when they took you. Just the clothes on your back. You were glad of the secret pocket stitched in your coat, then, more than you had ever been glad of it before. They could not take everything from you the way they took everything from the rest of your men. The papers stayed just as close to your chest as they always had. 

Stevie never wrote you letters, though, instead sending you drawings of all sorts of places, things, people. You wonder how it happened that he got to travel the country to see these places. He would not have drawn them otherwise. You always wait until long after the guards have left before you pull them out. Your men stopped asking you what they were long before you got caught in this mess. They would tease you about letters from your dame, trying to get you to show ‘em off, like everyone else did. But Stevie wasn’t your dame, and even if he was, these were just for you. 

The men in the cage were usually asleep before the last patrol anyways. 

“What you got there, Sarge?” someone asked you. The shock of another voice addressing you at this point caused your hands to grip the papers tighter, eyes hard as stone when they looked up. “How’d ya get to keep ‘em Sarge? Y’are a Sergeant, ain’t ya?” You could only nod. 

“Well how’d you keep ‘em, Sarge? Didn’t let none of the rest of us keep ours.” You tug at the side of your coat, not quite willing to articulate yourself here. Then he might expect you to answer who sent them. He wouldn’t understand why they press so necessarily against your heart. 

“Shoulda thought of that myself. Only way to lose ‘em is take the jacket off. ‘T so cold out here, that ain’t never gonna happen. Say, Sarge, you think we make it outta here you could help me make one a them?”

“We ain’t makin’ it outta here.” You cannot stop the words from leaving your lips. Your voice is hoarse and you aren’t sure when the last time you spoke was. 

“Not thinking like that, Sarge. How long you been here, then?” You frown. You don’t know how many days have passed. You never see the outside anyways. 

“We been here near a month. Well, I guess it’s just me now. My men were either dead in the firefight, or they been lost here. How many you got left?”

You shrug. At this point, you’re unsure. You think you only came with 30, although you don’t know how many managed to escape. So many have died in these cages, you aren’t sure which of yours have survived this long. You can’t remember the last time you saw their faces, but you’ve long since stopped searching. You aren’t even sure you’ve seen these faces before. People change cages every time they come back from the factory. You stopped paying attention when you realized you were sick. Pneumonia, you think, remembering how Stevie had been each winter he caught it. You know, though, that for some reason these men will not let the guards shoot you like a dog. You think sometimes that you should be. It would be easier. 

You hear a guard approaching, and you wonder what for. It has long past their final evening rounds. The guard hears the man talking, and stops in front of your cage. The door unlocks, and you find yourself wondering why you didn’t stop the guard from taking him. You just sat back and watched. Usually, you tried to stop them. He didn’t scream when the guard grabbed him by the neck. Didn’t fight when he was pulled down the hall. You wondered how long it would be until you heard him scream. 

When you wake in the morning, you have not heard a single scream. You do not understand -- every man here has screamed in the night at least once. But this night was silent. Empty of noise. You blink yourself awake, and notice that you are no longer in the cage. It seems they took you last night, too. You wonder if you screamed loud enough for anyone to hear you. You wonder if anyone else still cares about the men who scream during the day. 

“You are awake! Good, good. The other did not last an hour past injection. But you, you Sergeant are ready for the next series of injections. Gentlemen, hold him down.” Dazed, you watch four men approach the table. They pin you by your arms and legs to the table. You feel the straps. 

Time passes in a blur. You remember the feeling of a needle in your arm, seeing a maniac grin in front of you before each prick. It hurts you more and more with every new injection. You scream and scream and scream. Mostly it’s just nonsense. But it never does anything to help you, so instead you make sure you never forget who you are. You say your name and serial number over and over and over and over and over without end. 

It grounds you. Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038. Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038. Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038. Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038. Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038. Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038. Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038. Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038. Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038. Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038. 

You are unsure of how many times you say it before you hear, “Bucky? Oh my god.” You feel the straps break away from your skin. Your body moves a little. You open your eyes. 

“It’s me. It’s Steve.” 

That’s his face, staring down at you. You cannot stop the smile as you say his name, reverent. He lifts you from the table, holds you in his arms, and pats a hand on your cheek. You wonder now how many times you had touched him the same way for this to be so natural. 

“I thought you were dead.” The fear and the pain in his voice is little more than you can bear. You need him to be Stevie now. To smile at you the way he used to each morning. You wonder what happened that he is suddenly so much bigger than you. Did they shrink you? No. No, you still have your feet and your legs. It must be him. 

“I thought you were smaller,” you say, still dazed. There’s a sound before he can say anything, and you watch him turn towards it, then glance at the map on the wall behind you. You know that map. You see it every time you open your eyes. There are things missing from that map. 

“Come on,” he says, pulling you with him out into the hallway. You are holding on for dear life as you try to walk for the first time in you don’t know how long. You ask, “What happened to you?”

“I joined the army.” Of course he did. That was Stevie. He would find a way to get what he wanted, no matter the consequences. Stevie. 

“Did it hurt?” you ask as the doctor’s face runs behind your eyes, grinning. You feel the pinprick of a needle.

“A little,” Stevie responds, moving forward. 

The doctor whispers, _You will be the new fist of Hydra, Sergeant. You will become a superior man, Sergeant_. “Is it permanent?” you wonder, starting to gain the ground with your feet. You let him go, content to stumble on your own. 

“So far.” You aren’t sure if you had meant to ask him the question, or if it was meant for the man in your mind. It does not matter. You regain your ability to walk quickly. Too quickly. It shouldn’t be this easy. Stevie doesn’t notice. If he did, you know he would not understand the significance. He does not know how long you have been tied to that table. You could not guess at how long you have been tied down. You want to say more, but when you open your mouth, the urge to say, “Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038” again is too strong. You close your mouth. He encourages you to keep going, keep moving. You are certain that it is only his voice that keeps you moving. Mostly, mostly you just want to fall to your knees and let the building crumble down on top of you. It would be easier, you think. But Stevie’s never done ‘easier,’ and you know he will not let you do ‘easier,’ either. Never has. 

You both shrink back from the explosions, the fire hot on your faces. You follow him up a flight of stairs, faster than Stevie had ever been before, faster than you should be now. You both come to a halt as someone calls out, “Captain America,” but you lose the rest the moment you see the doctor. Stevie moves, but you are frozen still in this burning hell. 

When the metal bridge shifts, you hear the man continue to shout at Stevie, but there is nothing you could do now, even if you tried. Then, the man starts grabbing at his neck, and you lose focus on the doctor as you watch the man tear his face off. Fury and rage are nothing compared the red of his face. Unable to stop yourself, you ask Stevie, “You don’t have one of those do you?” The man disappears into the elevator as more explosions hit. Stevie shoos you up the next set of stairs. You make him go up them first, habit so ingrained even now when you know you are the weak one. You are surprised that he does not object. He always used to object.

“Let’s go, one at a time,” he says as you both look at the support beam. Crossing that metal piece feels impossible. It shakes and moans with every step you take. As you near the end, it starts to give and you jump, barely making it across as the metal falls. It takes a moment, but you pull yourself over the railing. You call out, “There’s gotta be a rope or something!”

He waves you on, “Just go! Get out of here!”

“No! Not without you!” screams from your throat as you slam your hands onto the metal bar. You wonder, briefly, about the smell of burning flesh and the sting of pain that disappears a moment later. It is nothing compared to the thought of leaving him behind again. Stevie looks around, trying to find a way across. He bends the rail out of the way, moving back as far as he could before running and jumping across. You hear the sizzle of his flesh as he grabs onto the same railing you had. It takes half your strength to help pull him up, but he makes it over. The smell of his burnt flesh lingers in your nostrils, even after you know his hands have healed. You can feel the fresh clean skin as his hand grabs yours. Yours are still scabbing over. 

 

There is a rather large group of men waiting at the edge of the forest. You and Stevie had not come across a single living man on the journey outwards. You wonder if these men had been so thorough in their destruction, or if most had been killed when the base exploded. It does not matter, really, you think to yourself. Stevie made it out alive, and that was really the only thing that did. 

One man calls himself Dugan, and you think you know his face. Another insists he is from Fresno, while one shouts in French. You wonder how a black man ended up in the group, being the only one. How could one man have survived what a platoon could not? You decide not to ask. There are hundreds of men standing around, you notice, and they seem to be looking at Stevie for orders. He looks at you, before he begins giving directions for the capable and the incapable. He calls them ‘wounded’ but you know that no one has left that place unscathed. You give him a salute, just as you had the night you left, but this time you are surprised to see the men beside you do the same. A moment later, they all spring into action, following Stevie’s orders in a way that no one really ever had. You follow him to the front of group, noticing the same men who met you at the edge fall into line behind you. 

As you march, you learn who is who. Dum Dum Dugan, James Falsworth, Gabe Jones, Jim Morita, and Jacques Dernier were the closest to you. What surprises you is that these men keep the rest at bay. Everyone wants to talk to the man who rescued them. You cannot help but appreciate that these men have already banded together to protect Stevie. You wonder how many of these men will join you, and how many will be sent home. Stevie is not going anywhere, which means you will not be going anywhere. You will fight with every last bit of strength you have and then some to be sure you stay beside him. As the march wears on, you cannot help but think you will fight for these men to stay with you, too, if they want to stay. 

They keep it peaceful, you think, as you and Stevie lead the group back to camp. (You have no idea how he knows where you all are going, especially after he tells you he came in by plane. But he seems confident and since when have you not followed Stevie?) Dugan is a little crazy, you think, and it can be difficult to hold a conversation when half of it is held in another language, but you find you like these men. Somehow, in the time it takes to march to base, you find yourself trusting these men. 

Stevie starts to get tense, and you think you must be near camp. He confides that he did not have permission to go looking for you, as if you had not already known. The army would never have allowed one man to storm an enemy camp 30 miles behind the lines, especially not after they did whatever they did to Stevie. When you had asked what happened as you walked, he shook his head and said, “I’ll tell you when we get back, Buck,” in a way that made you certain Stevie was not supposed to tell anyone. Well, the army would learn soon enough that whatever they told Steven Rogers would eventually make it into the ear of James Buchannan Barnes. 

When you finally get into camp, you look at Stevie, and you think he smiles. You try to return it, but you are not certain you succeed. You approach the man you are certain is in charge, although you do not know his name. 

“Some of these men need medical attention,” Stevie says after saluting the man. “I’d like to surrender myself for disciplinary action.” 

The man looks around, sees all the soldiers Stevie had saved, and, predictably, responds, “That won’t be necessary.” Stevie smiles and says, “Yes, sir.” That’s when the dame approaches, her eyes only on Stevie. The look on his face burns you worse than the railing. You can almost smell the flesh inside your chest sizzling in response. 

“You’re late,” she critiques after a moment of silence, looking him up and down. Stevie holds up some sort of device and says, “Couldn’t call my ride.” You can hear the smirk in his voice, and that’s what makes you look away. 

“Hey, let’s hear it for Captain America!” you shout, unable to bear the way they look at each other. You clench your jaw amidst the shouts.

 

They take you into the med tent, despite your protests. You know that they are debriefing Steve while you are being poked and prodded again, and you hold back the panic that this is all a dream. You need to hold onto to something, and the words spill from your mouth before you can stop yourself. Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038. The nurse gives you a strange look as she says, “Yes Sergeant, you’ve said.” But, she does send you on your way after that. 

You are confused to see Stevie sitting outside the tent, hands clenched tight between his knees. You call his name, and you are surprised at the softness of your tone. 

“Bucky!” he says as he jumps up, “Did you get cleared?” You nod. “Good, good. I mean I know you said you were fine, but I know you, Bucky. You’re not very good at telling the truth when it comes to all that.”

“Punk,” you respond with a smile. You are not very good at telling the truth about anything. 

“Jerk,” and the brightness of his grin nearly blinds you amidst the mud and dirt and grime. 

 

He does not debrief that night, instead settling you both in to his private tent. While you are startled by his private quarters, no one seems surprised that you are to share with him. It seems that Agent Carter had already found a cot for you and had it set up in his tent. You wondered when and why she had done it. She brings maps over, “Since Ste- Captain Rogers requested them.” 

Stevie smiles at her, though you are pleased to note it is not as bright as the one he had for you. When she leaves, you notice Stevie has bent over the maps, his brow furrowed as he grabbed a pencil.

“What are you doing?” you ask as you move behind him. 

“Hm? Oh, I’m trying to recreate the map I saw on the wall in the ro- in the base. I think the locations marked were Hydra bases.”

“Not sure what those are, but they didn’t ship any of the parts we made to any place on that map you’re drawing. Didn’t mark it down, just in case.”

“How d’ya know that, Buck?”

“They weren’t real quiet about stuff, Stevie. They talked loud enough for anyone who listened to hear ‘em. Guess they didn’t expect any of us to make it outta there.”

“Buck--” he starts, trying to move closer to you. You find, as he reaches out his hand, that physical contact would not be the comfort you would like it to be. You can still feel the hands of the men strapping you down to that table. You shake your head at him, saying, “I’m _fine_ , Stevie. I promise. Now I’m going to bed, and you’d best do the same. You got an early morning meeting with Col. Phillips, I hear. Don’t forget to tell ‘im what I said.” He only nods at you before you walk over to your cot. You peel off your boots before you curl beneath the blanket. The coldness shocks you, and you spend a good five minutes shivering. 

A chuckle breaks through the silence, and a moment later, you feel Stevie come up behind you. You scoot forward on the cot, and, as he slides in behind you, wrapping his arm around you the way you used to wrap yours around him, the bed creaks under the weight of you both. You don’t care. The steady beat of his heart is a strange feeling at your back, so much stronger than it’s ever been, and the warmth that emanates from his overly large body is somehow the most peculiar thing you have experienced. 

Every part of this moment is so backwards from what you had ever known -- nearly the exact opposite of what used to be -- but somehow you still fit with each other like nothing else. 

 

When you wake up, the bed is empty and cold. You wonder how Stevie had left without waking you. Yawning, you realize it has been nearly a year since you were able to sleep more than a couple hours at a time. You wonder if it is because you had Stevie next to you, or if it was because you felt warm for the first time since you deployed. Perhaps they were the same thing. 

 

Stevie comes back a few minutes after you wake and tells you that you will all be going to London in an hour. He says that Col. Phillips is willing to let him choose his own team to take down Hydra. Asks you for suggestions. You suggest the men that marched back to camp with you, protecting him (although you do not tell him that is the reason they have gained your trust). He nods, thinking through the skills that they had mentioned in passing as they marched. He asks if you trust them, and you nod. His surprise, though quickly concealed, is evident. You have never trusted much more than Stevie and your family. He nods, as if that settles the matter, and you can’t help but say, “But they’re all idiots if they accept the offer.” He smiles at your smirk, and you laugh gently. He gets up, telling you that he needs to make sure the Colonel has his list of names, make sure they get to London with the two of you tonight. You feel colder than you had last night.

 

It’s not long after you all arrive that Dum Dum leads you all to some local bar. You head straight to the counter, not really looking for the company of anything other than a bottle. Stevie’s sitting with the men at a table in the bar, and you know he’s asking for their help on the team. You sit at the bar, not wanting to hear the conversation. He approaches you, and you know they have agreed. Picking up your drink, you tell him, “See, told you. They’re all idiots,” and down the rest of your drink. He sits next to you, and says, “How ‘bout you? Are you ready to follow _Captain America_ into the jaws of death?” 

“Hell, no,” you respond without a thought, “That little guy from Brooklyn, who was too dumb not to run away from a fight,” you say as you stare across the bar, “I’m following him.” You need to see his face, then. Need to make sure he understood just what you meant. The look of fear in his eyes is slowly washed away as you hold his gaze. 

“But you’re keeping the outfit, right?” you ask, trying to convince yourself that you could be the way you were before again. He smiles, glancing at a poster on the wall, “You know what? It’s kinda growing on me.” You wonder if he feels the year long chasm between you, too. 

When the bar goes silent, you both look to see the cause. There, dressed to the nines, is Agent Carter. She doesn’t bother with a glance at anyone other than Steve. You both stand as they address each other. She ignores your greeting, and you look her up and down. She seems right enough. Still, you need to try anyways, to be sure. 

“Howard has some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning.”

“Sounds good.” She finally glances away from him, and as you look at him, you see his eyes drag down her body in a way you have never seen before. The thought is a punch to the gut. 

“I see your top squad is prepping for duty.” Her condescension hits you all too wrong after that. 

“You don’t like music?” you ask. Still looking at Steve, she responds, “I do actually. I might, even, when this is all over, go dancing.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” you ask, trying to assert the charm you have always had. Her eyes are still gazing in Steve’s. The way she says, “The right partner,” as though it has meaning behind it somehow makes it hurt more. “0800, Captain,” she finishes, departing without another glance at either of you. You watch her leave as Steve says, “Yes ma’am. I’ll be there.” 

Before she’s even out of the bar you say, “I’m invisible. I’m turning into you. It’s, it’s a horrible dream.” He claps you on the shoulder as he turns back to the bar. You do not care that you are invisible to her, but that you are to him. You hope you never made him think he was invisible to you.

“Don’t take it so hard. Maybe she’s got a friend.” You bite your lip to keep from saying anything else. You’ve tried too hard for the night. You toss back another shot, clap him on the shoulder, and decide you need to turn in. Stevie can handle the men if they get too rowdy. 

 

He shows you his new shield right before lunch. You ask him if he’s going to paint it to match the outfit. He looks as though he is considering your joke. You notice scuff marks, and ask why Stark gave you a messed up shield. Didn’t he want only the best for his _Capitaine_? 

“Peggy shot at me,” he says with forced nonchalance. The surprise you feel must be evidenced on your face. He forces a chuckle and tells you, “Private Lorraine -- you remember her, the pretty blonde?” Of course you did. You compared every blonde you ever met. Private Dalton springs to mind, and you force the feel of his mouth out of your mind as you wave Stevie on. “Well, I was looking for Howard, and she kinda cornered me. Started macking on me, saying it was a repayment from the wives of all the men I saved. Peggy walked in and saw before I could get away.” The way he shrugs after that tells you that he’s leaving something out. 

“What’d you do, punk?” you ask. He flushes at that, and you are grateful that he can still react that way. You wonder how far down it goes now. If it still reaches past his chest.

“I, um, may have implied that she and Stark were, uh, fonduing.”

“What the hell is ‘fonduing,’ Rogers?” 

“Apparently just cheese and bread.” You let words settle over you before you burst into laughter. 

His upset look does not stop your gusto, but stifles it a little, as you try to explain to him, “You thought she was fucking Stark? Really, Stevie? She’s a beautiful dame, Stevie. And one of the smartest people I ever met, dame or no. Much higher caliber than Stark could ever get, no matter how much he tried. She’s a damn bit above whatever he could even hope for. And even if he could, she’s had her sights set on you, Stevie. She don’t pay any mind to other guys when you’re around. Figured even you could see that.”

This time, he flushes from pleasure and embarrassment. You tried to remind yourself that this was best for him -- that Agent Carter was probably the only dame you’d ever met that could even be close to worthy. You knew you weren’t, that you never had been.

 

“I take it Steve has made you his second in command?” Agent Carter asks you as you finish pulling on your shirt. Turning to look at her, not quite surprised to see that she is standing in the entrance to your tent, you merely respond, “Ma’am.” The hate you had tried to feel for her when you realized who she was to Stevie has steadily been washing away. She is far more than her relationship with him, and you are certain that you would want to be her friend if not for Stevie. She’s a spitfire, and a damn good shot. Smart and stubborn as she is beautiful. A fighter to the end. You realize this is often how you think of Stevie. 

“Sergeant Barnes,” she begins, although you can see the gears spinning in her head, “No, that’s incorrect. Field promotions are rather common, these days. Your rank, soldier,” she commands. 

“Master Sergeant, ma’am.” 

“Master Sergeant Barnes, then,” with only the slightest hint of surprise across her features. Before she could continue, you said, “We lost a lot of good men, ma’am,” and you cannot keep the bitterness from your voice. 

“I am well aware of that, Barnes. With Steve officially being made a Captain, as his second, they may promote you to First Lieutenant-” she started, but you were shaking your head at her. 

“Ma’am, I’m an NCO. I’d like to keep it that way. Besides, officially I’m still only a Sergeant.” She gave you a calculating look, but a sharp nod followed it a moment later. 

“Understood. Now, Barnes, Colonel Phillips would like me to clear you for the position Captain Rogers has insisted you’ll take.”

“Ma’am.” You wondered at the harshness in your tone. It was not something you expected. As much as you may hate her relationship with Stevie, you have tried to be the man Stevie would want you to be. 

“Do we have a problem, Master Sergeant?” There was no fury in her tone, no anger. Just pure and simple command to answer. You liked that. It meant that she would not let her feelings get in the way of the goal. Another reason, you thought, that she was more worthy than you.

“Ma’am.” She let out a defeated sigh, and you watched as every ounce of her command seeped from her body. 

“James, I know that this is a delicate situation, and I had hoped that you would allow me to assist you in keeping Steve safe. From what he’s told me, having a woman in his life has not been common, so this must be as new to you as it is to him. I can understand your wariness, James, but I hope that I can prove myself to you.” Her words surprise you more than you had thought possible. Surely, she could not need your approval? 

There is a pregnant pause before you manage to say, “Bucky. Ma was the only who called me James.” You are astonished by the brightness of her smile. Whether it is because of the contrast of her teeth and her lipstick, or the emotion behind it, you are uncertain. 

“Then call me Peggy. As I was saying, Colonel Phillips wants to be certain you are capable of fulfilling the position Captain Rogers says belongs to you.”

“Steve. If we’re not gonna be formal to each other, we don’t need to be about him. And if Phillips thinks Stevie isn’t going to get his way whether you approve me or not, he’s got another thing coming.”

“You would think that after Steve disobeyed his direct orders, stormed a Hydra camp alone, and brought back more than 400 POWs, all because he needed to know if you were well and truly dead, Colonel Phillips would have figured that out.” That fact is what keeps you going. “But the Colonel does need the paperwork filled out. May I?” she says, motioning to one of the two seats at the table. She does not seemed bothered by the knowledge that Stevie could come in any moment, that if he were to know what was happening here Col. Phillips would be on the receiving end of one very furious Steve Rogers. That, you are certain, is more intimidating now than it used to be. 

She must know what is running through your head as she says, “Captain Rogers is, for the moment, currently occupied by Colonel Phillips. For what, I am sure I cannot imagine.” She smiles at you again, and you take the seat across from her. The discussion, while remaining professional, is something she obviously does not approve of. You appreciate that knowledge. 

Colonel Phillips files the paperwork that approves your role. To your bewilderment, he does the same for the men Steve requested, national and international segregation be damned. 

 

The next few months are spent on missions or with Stark and Peggy. You hate missions -- Stevie does a lot of stupid things. He likes to throw grenades into tanks he’s standing on, burst into different rooms with guns blazing and no real information on who is where, and completely ignore his surroundings as the Commandos storm bases to name a few. You have always been his right hand and his left--his indispensable assistant and his silent knife--but now you are also the eyes in the sky. This new protection you can offer is good. 

When the Colonel hears of your skill with a rifle, he begins to send you on other missions while Stevie and the rest of the Commandos await new orders. The first time the Colonel tried to send you on a mission different than Stevie’s, you were pleasantly surprised that Carter put a stop to it. She fought by your side until he relented. When you went on missions, Stevie was often preparing for the next one, but he did not leave without you.

Otherwise, you spend most of your nights at camp with Howard Stark. Sleep does not come easily to you, and you know it does not come easily to him. Besides, you like being able to work with your hands at creating again. Now, they are mostly used for destruction. You are certain that the blood that stains them will one day be too heavy for you to hold them up. You are certain that one day they will pull you down down down. They will not let you rise again. 

 

“Bucky!” Howie shouts at you one night in June of ‘44 as you enter the lab after a long mission. You are hoping for the peace of watching him work.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got a brand new rifle for you. Can’t believe you’ve made do so long with that piece of junk they gave you. Scope on this one is more accurate, the recoil reduced, and you can even use three different kinds of bullets! You wanna test it out?” The hopeful look in his eyes was hard to refuse, but you are not sure you could handle firing another round tonight. Your hands are shaking, although you would blame it on the cold if anyone asked. 

“Not tonight, Howard,” and you have never been more grateful for the command that woman wields as well as her femininity.

“Aw, Peggy. You sure know how to ruin a night.”

“Of course, Howard. Sergeant Barnes, if I could speak with you in private?” You nod, unsure what is so important that she must drag you away in the middle of the night. You follow her outside, expecting to stop just short of the entrance. Instead, she keeps walking towards the forest. You follow in confusion.

“Agent Carter?” After her address, you assume that this is meant to be business and not pleasure. 

“Bucky,” she says, relaxing her stance, leaning against one of the trees around you. 

“What’s goin’ on Peg? ‘S everything alright?” you ask. (You have, over these past few months, become friends. She has wheedled her way into you despite all your prior distaste. Most times, even, you can forgive her the love she and Stevie have.) When she shakes her head, you reach out to her, same as you do for Stevie. 

“Peg?” There is a pain in her eyes you cannot help but understand, “What’s wrong with Stevie?” 

“He’s ok, Bucky. It’s not-- it’s not about Steve.”

“Then what is it, Pegs?” 

“My parents. The V-1s are dropping on London, and they’ve...it’s...” You watch her eyes fill with tears as she speaks. Without another thought, you pull her into your arms. Later, you will wonder when the last time you held someone other than Stevie was; you will find that the last time you hugged anyone like this, anyone who wasn’t Stevie, was when you told Becca you were shipping out. It is odd, you will think, how comforting it is to hold onto to someone so tightly, even when you are trying to comfort them. 

She cries into your shoulder for some time, and you just hold her close as she does. When the tears do stop, you are uncertain how long you have been here with her. She pulls away from you, wiping her eyes with her hand, “I’m sorry, Bucky, I didn’t--”

“Don’t you dare apologize, Peggy. Not for a second. It’s all right to be upset, Pegs. Me and Stevie both cried when Sarah passed, you know. And we both knew it was gonna happen, so don’t you apologize for that. You can put on whatever brave face you got for the rest of them, but you don’t have to do that for me, all right?”

“Sir yes sir, Sergeant Barnes,” she says with mock sincerity. 

“I mean it, Pegs. I get that you got a face to put on for all of them, but don’t think you gotta do that for me. I won’t think any less of you.” The words fall out of your mouth before you can think about them, and you find that they are true. As much as you have wanted to hate her in the past, you have grown to hold her near your heart. She is important for more than just her relationship with Stevie. She is important because she is your friend. 

 

The next night, when the rest of the Commandos go to the nearby town for fun, you tell them you are going to rest for the night. Instead, you go to Peggy’s tent with a bottle of whiskey you took from the Colonel last week. You say, in a gruff voice not entirely your own, “Agent Carter.” It holds more command than you thought you could muster. Command really was not something you had much to do with. Even with Steve at the helm, the Commandos were more a democracy. 

“Sir,” she says as she moves from the interior. You grin at her when she frowns at you, “Ma’am.” Shaking her head, she waves you into the tent, realizing there is no official business. 

“I thought you went with the boys to the pubs, Bucky. Steve said you were all going.”

“Nah. I wasn’t feeling up for skirt chasing tonight, and Steve can handle all of them boys alone. I figure you and I could get drunk here.”

“Bucky!” 

“Aw come on, Pegs. We both know you could use a drink tonight.”

“Where, exactly, do you think this drink will be coming from? I’ve nothing here, and--”

“And the Colonel should really find better hiding places,” you say as you pull out the bottle from under your coat. She smiles and shakes her head at you. 

“All right, Sergeant,” she says, reaching for a couple of glasses. You put away nearly half the bottle before she says anything, and you wish that alcohol would actually affect you the way it used to. You are surprised by the steadiness of her words as she says, “Sometimes I wonder if Steve loves me as much as he loves you. If I could ever love him back they way you do.”

“What d’you mean, Pegs?” you ask, panic settling in your chest for a moment. She stares at you, considering. You relax as you realize that if she already knows, she has no intention of telling the Colonel. 

“There is no one in the world Steve loves the way he loves you, Bucky.” At your silence, she continues, “You’ll notice, Bucky, that he was content to be a ‘dancing monkey’ until the moment he thought he lost you. He wanted to come with us to fight Hydra, but he didn’t fight for it the way he fought for you. Phillips told him no, and that was it. But when he thought you’d been lost to the world? The Colonel could have had every last man in camp try and keep him here, and they would have failed. I saw the look in his eyes when he thought you were gone.” She took a pull from the bottle, the glasses having been forgotten a few shots back. “To be truthful, I am not sure he would have come back without you.”

You wait in silence for a minute, before you manage, “He’d’ve come back for you, Pegs. Had to bring those prisoners back, too.” There is no certainty in your words. She pretends anyways. 

“Believe what you like, Barnes. Steve would have led those men around the continent searching for you, if he had to. We both know that.” You are certain that each and every one of those men would have followed him, too. 

“Ma’am,” is all you can muster. You take a pull from the bottle yourself as she rolls her eyes. 

“While the other people you work with pay no mind, I can assure you, Bucky, that I am well aware of your relationship. Only a blind man could miss it, and unfortunately, or fortunately, for you, that means you’re working with only blind men.” She stares at you, seeming to expect something. You can feel the panic welling in your chest, despite knowing she was not going to tell a soul. Supposing, of course, that she actually knew the truth. “Bucky, I’m glad that you love him the way I do. Steve deserves that more than anything. He has spent too much of his time fighting against people who cannot understand his value to not know how much he truly is loved, truly is worthy, Bucky. I wish I could say that he knows how you feel, although I rather believe that he does not. I’m not even sure if he has ever acknowledged to himself how he feels for you, but it is there.” She seemed to realize you were not really listening to her words. You could not. 

As intoxicated as she was, you were somehow unsurprised to see her slip easily back into command, her shoulders set and her back ramrod straight. She told you, all the certainty she held in every meeting and all the confidence she had in every step outside these flaps, “There is no one, Sergeant, with whom I would rather share his love. You are more deserving of it, I think, than you are willing to admit to yourself.”

You want to bring the bottle to your lips and chug the rest. These are words you never wanted to hear, words you know cannot possibly be true. They will ring around in your mind, bouncing off the interior as easily as Stevie always bounced off the ground in a fight. You think that if you could drink it fast enough, feel enough of it, you could lose these words. You could lose these words. 

You sat in silence for a bit; she seemed to be out of things to say. Finally, finally, you look up at her, no longer able to bear the weight of the words, the silence, the air. You open your mouth, unsure what you are going to say, when you hear the tell-tale signs of the Commandos returning to camp for the night. Shaking, shaken, you stand, chair falling harshly to the ground, “I must- I’ve got...”

“Goodnight Sergeant,” she says with a smile, turning back to her own cot without waiting for a response, without waiting for you to leave. You wonder, briefly, if it is her faith in you or her faith in herself that allows her to be so unguarded.

“Bucky?” you hear Stevie call as the flaps close behind you. 

“Hey, Stevie,” you say, uncertain of his reaction. You have, after all, just left the tent of his dame in the middle of the night. You wonder if it is confusion or hurt you hear in his voice. 

“I, uh, I thought you weren’t feeling well, Buck.”

“Nah. I just wasn’t wanting to go in to town.”

“Why didn’t you just say that, Buck?” You shrug. There is a pregnant pause, and you can see him debating asking a question. Then, “What were you doing with Peggy?” You’ve never heard that fear in his voice before. Fear, yes. But this is a new kind of fear. It is hurt and betrayal and concern and a million other things you are not sure you want to name. 

“Remember that bottle of whiskey I had?” 

“Yeah, that you stole from Colonel Phillips.”

“Agent Carter found it. I came to get it back.”

“At this hour? You didn’t sneak into her tent while she’s sleeping, did you?” You could practically see his righteous indignation coming up. 

“Nah,” you say, shaking your head and holding up the nearly empty bottle. 

“Jeez, Buck,” he responds, shaking his head, “How much of that did you drink? It was full when you took it!”

“Yeah, but we ain’t dead yet, Stevie,” you remind him, slinging an arm around his shoulder much like you did the night you shipped out. The faces of the girls you took out that night flash in front of your eyes. You wonder if you appear more drunk to him than you know you are. You hope so; he shouldn’t think Carter drank the bottle. 

“C’mon Buck, we should get to bed.” He led you back to your tent, and you leaned more on him than really was necessary. You are not sure if it is because you were pretending to be drunk, or because you needed to feel his weight beneath your arms. 

 

Sometimes you wonder why there are only two things you are skilled at. You want to ask Him why there are only two things you can really, truly do. Why you can pull the trigger and kill a man more than a hundred yards out, take a knife and stab another cleanly in the heart. Why you have no qualms about taking off a man’s head. How, despite this, the only other thing you have ever been able to do is protect Stevie. You can kill a man with no thought, put a bullet in his brain with no hesitation. But protecting Stevie is your number one priority. You are certain that, should you fail in this, no one would stop you from drenching yourself in the blood of the men and their comrades who caused you to fail. Still, you know that if all the blood you’ve spilt was inching its way up your skin, even now it would not stop until long after you had had been drowned. Perhaps a more accurate understanding would be bathing in their blood. It would coat every inch of you, staining deeper and darker until nothing was left of you but a stone cold heart and the remnants of the men you slaughtered. 

 

You spend the next few months alternating between washing blood and washing oil from your hands. Stark seems to think your hands just need a little bit of practice before they can work just like his, deep in the mechanical prison he calls a lab. He does not know the only reason you can manage on an engine was because the winter of ‘40 Stevie was the worst he’d ever been and you needed money for his medicine. It was not a skill, but a necessity. You do not do well in his lab. The blues of the weapon Stevie stole bring you back and back and back and you forget one night that Stevie saved you from the lab. He could not -- he could never -- save you from the flames, but that is not the same. It is the same, but you try and forget that. Stevie has saved you, temporarily. It is more than you ever deserved. 

 

“Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?” you ask as you stare down the cliffs to the railtrack below. There is a churning in your gut, but it is not fear of dying here. You fear that this will be the time you fail him. You fear that he will die here. 

“Yeah, and I threw up.”

“This isn’t payback, is it?” You need to focus on something, anything that will drag this fear from your gut and let it fall down the mountain like your dead body.

“Now why would I do that,” he responds, looking at the rigging just above your head. You continue to stare out at the railtracks over the cliff. 

You drop onto the train, following close behind him. You enter the carriage and shut the door behind you. You hear something behind you as Steve presses forward. The doors between you close as you open fire on the Hydra agents. You take out all but one before you run out of bullets. You think, _this is it. This is where I die_. Then you see Steve, and you could not be happier that your silent communication skills have only improved in the last two years. He tosses you the gun, runs to slam the box forward, and you put a bullet in between the Hydra agent’s eyes. 

“I had him on the ropes,” you say, letting your arm down softly, the fear of failing him finally dissipating.

“I know you did,” Steve says as you hear a weapon power up behind you. You start to turn, confused. You had already won this battle, had you not?

“Get down!” he shouts, going low as he shoves you behind him and holds his shield up. The force of the shot knocks the shield loose as Steve is thrown the side. You try to ignore the gaping hole in the side of the carriage as you pick up his shield. (You will not fail him.) It is as familiar in your hands now as the feel of a pistol in your palm. You fire the gun, but it’s not strong enough to take the robot down. It fires again, and, lacking the proper footholds and Stevie’s strength, you are thrown out the hole, the shield falling from your grasp inside as you reach for something to hold on to. You aren’t sure what happens inside in those few precious seconds before you see Steve’s face. 

He calls your name, climbing like the fool he is onto the dangling piece of metal. He moves towards you even as you struggle to move closer to him. He calls out, “Hang on! Grab my hand!” and you reach, even as you know it is already too late. The bar you are holding on to is shaking and grunting with your weight. Still, you reach out to him as the bar breaks off and you are lost. You are happy, at least, that it is not Stevie falling. You know you could not have survived not being able to protect him from this. You did not fail him. You are thankful, more than anything, that your last action was protecting him, rather than killing another man. Your final thought is that maybe this was your redemption. 

 

You wake up to the doctor’s face, and wonder if these past few years even happened at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m expanding this with a bit from Winter Soldier, and its aftermath. I've been working on it, and I've decided to wait until I've seen Civil War and can include its canon within the story. I'd like to stay as far away from complete AU/UA as possible. Mostly, I want to be able to add to my understanding of canon, as I've done here. 
> 
> I want to be able to further explore relationships and events through Bucky's eyes, and understand a little bit more about who I think he is within the MCU. I will continue it in the second person, and include canon scenes as well as create my own scenes. Simply put, it will be the same telling in a different time.


End file.
